I’m sitting on a gilded chair, writing on a gilded table. The floors beneath me are marble, and the chandeliers above are sparkly and crystal. The only reminder that I’m in a war zone is the pair of man-high concrete barriers I can see out my window. “It’s Sunday, man, you’re working too hard,” a national guardsmen just told me. Welcome to Baghdad.

You know, the place where:

Not all that far away, Marine grunts are going weeks without showers or toilets, chomping on rations – and generally maintaining a positive outlook on life. I got my laundry done by a Philippino maid. Yesterday, I listened to a salsa band play in the chow hall, while I supped on alu gobi and navratan vegetable curry.

As Noah Shachtman says in the article:

This isn’t a war. It’s a war convention. Too bad I didn't bring my bathing suit; maybe I would have taken a dip in the big, outdoor pool a few hundred yards away.

Next time one of our officials visits, and wants to come back and tell us how nicely everything is going, I think he or she should try staying in the barracks with the guys who are there for the war, and not the war convention.